


Unmaking the Unforgivable

by Zoya1416



Category: Discworld, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angua is a Boss Werewolf, F/M, Gross Depictions of Violence, Magrat is a Boss Wich, Medical Procedures, Medical ickiness, Remus Was Dead To Begin With, So Was Tonks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-11-16 13:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18095666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: Summary: Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks are severely wounded and thought dead during the last battle of Hogwarts. But there's a million to one chance (which happens 9 times out of 10, at least on the Disc) that a killing curse might not have been final. When Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks appear on the Disc, forces join to unmake the unforgivable curse.A fix-it fic mostly from the view of the Discworld characters.





	1. A Million to One Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the battle of Hogwarts, Remus and Tonks are transmigrated to the only place that might save them: the Disc on a full moon night.

 

Angua’s head snapped up. She’d heard a very small sound like the exhalation of a very small vole. Her werewolf senses were stronger on full moon night, but she couldn’t be sure what she’d heard. If it was a breath, no inhalation followed. A rich odor followed the sound and her hackles jumped. Newcomer. Danger. Invader. Werewolf. Werewolf male, less than half a mile away. How by all the gods had she missed him? He couldn’t have been here earlier, he was too close. Even chasing chickens with Gaspode didn’t dull her attention to her surroundings. Was he alone? She flared her nostrils, didn’t smell any more wolves, and began loping toward him.

“Miss, don’t bovver him. He could be tricking us. He’s prolly just holding his breath ready for the leap and the bite.” A smell of dead things and a privy carpet followed her. The foul grayish-brown dog, a mix of terrier and who knew what, had reached a new low tonight, with a yellow-gray mess on his ears.

She ignored Gaspode as she always did except when they were chasing chickens together. In the same place. Only at certain times—okay, yes, she was letting Gaspode follow her around on full moon nights for no reason except that he was the only canine in the area who could talk to her.

“Miss,” Gaspode whined. “Leave him alone. Werewolves are right barstards, saving your presence. He’s trouble.”

“Shut up Gaspode, and open your nose. I know you can smell it.” It was a thick, fatal, oily line of black fire which blocked all others. Except there was the weakest trail of deep purple smoke. The purple trail began to break up, and she ran full out.

 

%%%%%%

 

Remus Lupin was dead when his body appeared on the Disc. Dead except for three or four yellow sparks flickering through his medulla oblongata like cloud to cloud lightning. Killing curses will do that. He’d felt the green explosion when the curse hit his chest. Then he felt green-gold slashes slicing through his scalp, thousands of them, which bit down through his skin and bones to his feet. There were other strokes which spun through his organs in blades of purple-red, whirlwinds meeting and passing through each other. The agony went on for—a time he could no longer measure. It seemed unnecessary since he would die anyway. But Antonin Dolohov was one of the longest-serving, most devoted and sadistic of all Voldemort’s Death Eaters. He must have decided that since it was an Unforgivable Curse, he might as well revel in it. Then even the pain disappeared.

 

%%%%%%

 

Angua arrived at Remus’ body and sniffed him frantically. There was blood everywhere. His head lolled to one side in the neck muscles’ final collapse. He didn’t move. He was damaged beyond what she’d ever seen a werewolf survive and yet—very faintly and slowly –Lub………...Dub…………...Lub……..……….Dub…….…. a few cardiac cells struggled to form into an organ. If she could get any food to his body it would begin to heal. Her instincts took over and she began lapping at his muzzle, then nipping at it to make him open his jaws. He still didn’t move. Gaspode scurried up next to her, a tiny mouse dangling between his teeth. 

 

“Thwat’s wight, Miss, get twhis down him and I’whill get anovver.” He spat out the mouse, and raced away, his privy carpet smell worsened by fear. He had smelt the stink of wizards on the dead wolf. 

 

Angua could feel by her tongue that the new wolf’s jaw was broken in at least three places. How could she ever get him open it enough to eat the mouse? She licked at his muzzle faster. 

%%%%%%%

It was a million to one shot, which happens nine times out of ten—Remus had arrived in the only time and place in the multi-verse which could keep him alive: the Disc on a full moon night. His body had shifted while he was dying, and he was completely wolf by the time Angua found him. The thrumming magical field which surrounded the Disc augmented his fading supernatural healing and kept the one last spark of life from going out. Angua crushed the mouse with her jaws and licked at Remus’ muzzle, forcing drops of blood onto his teeth. Five minutes, and she was out of mouse, but then Gaspode was back with another one. Angua chomped on it without looking and went back to licking.

 

“Hey, miss, hav a care, I could lose a paw or sumfin.” Her heard her growl softly deep in her throat. Then he yipped in surprise and backed up a few paces. It wasn’t her growl. 

 

Angua’s ears went flat against her skull, and she growled. It was the instinctive response of one wolf hearing another not in its pack. “Wrong wolf wrong wolf, kill now kill now!” But her heart was singing. A growl, even a tiny one like this, meant life. If she had been on two legs instead of four (and had a scientific degree in canine anatomy beside the practical one) she might have thought, “Right, that means his throat muscles have healed and his larynx cartilage has stiffened sufficiently to respond to the stimulus his recovering nerves have received from the not-quite dead brain.” 

 

“Get me two more mice and then go get the chickens!”

 

Gaspode ran off in the night, thinking, “’s’not fair. Now she’ll have another man if she turfs Carrot out, while I, the hero of this piece, will not get even a sniff” and he stopped that. Angua could not hear him think but she would smell him when he came back and scent “I’m a Big Boy, I Am,” which meant he’d been thinking about her like he oughtnt’have. 

 

By the time Gaspode had brought the three chickens, the other wolf’s noises had changed to constant muffled whines. Muffled, Gaspode realized, because he now had his jaw open part-way and Angua was nosing chunks of mouse down his throat. Gaspode whined a bit himself, because he could feel the pain radiating from the other wolf.  
%%%%%%%

 

Remus’ jaw had been broken in three places. Every one of his 206 human bones had, even the tiny ones in the ears. He couldn’t hear another wolf running toward him, but smell is the last thing to fade in the werewolf’s brain.  
Another wolf. Female. Please don’t kill me, wolf. Then he smelled her worry and desire to help.

 

Remus’ jaw was broken in only one place now, and he could swallow chunks, ignoring lasting winces. Against anything he’d ever heard of, he had somehow survived being hit with a killing curse. Barely survived—his screaming, sliced organs had been healing themselves slowly from the time he appeared on the Disc, before Angua reached him. They had needed less energy than his shattered bones. He was able to absorb the first drops Angua had pressed against him because they had gone directly into his newly-sealed blood vessels. A raw new esophagus was needed before he could swallow any whole food, and his new, knitted together stomach could only squeeze with miniscule muscles. But compared to the red-purple messes two hours before, they were fabulous. 

His heart had recovered even quicker, because living cardiac muscles throb by themselves, without nerves. Whether they get faster, slower, or skip beats depends on nerves, but even weak human heart muscles beat.

 

%%%%%%

 

Angua changed back to human as soon as the new wolf began to swallow, because she wanted to think. To defy the change all her cells demanded had been formidable. She persevered because she wanted to live a human life, and at last succeeded. The urge to revert to wolf form was almost unendurable, and she couldn’t stay in the two-legged form for very long. But at least she could think about the problem with a different brain, as she knelt by him.

 

She would not be able to move him until more of his bones had healed. From what she could tell the bones big enough to have marrows had been broken several times. What about the little bones of the spine? How badly were they damaged? What could she do to help that?

 

“Needs bones to put on bones, missy,” her grandmother had told her. “Your uncle was fool enough to get his leg bitten off, and if I don’t give him any new bones, his old bones will have strength pulled from them while he heals.“ Angua had been a mere puppy, and in wolf form where recalling words was difficult, but she remembered these, mostly because her grandmother had given her a spoonful of the delicious bone soup she was cooking, then gently smacked her muzzle when she pawed after more. “Remember. Bones make new bones.”

 

It had been full dark when they found him, but it was several more hours until dawn. If he lived until then, he’d shift automatically, and she wasn’t sure he could survive the shift. He couldn’t be moved at all until his back muscles and vertebrae had come back, and she needed bones. Only one choice, and she wondered why she’d been putting it off.

 

“Gaspode. Go get Captain Carrot and bring him here. Make him bring a huge vat of ribs from Harga’s House of Ribs, and bring water for it.” She picked up another chunk of mouse and pinched the wolf’s muzzle again. If he died—if she couldn’t save him—she was not going to think of that.

 

“Miss…” whined Gaspode. “I can maybe get the boy to bring ribs but water’ll slosh out. Not sure he’ll understand me even in a panto.” He scratched his ear nervously, dislodging the refuse from the fish market. He’d acquired it to improve his smell for her, but she hadn’t said anything. 

 

“I don’t care! Make him bring water in wineskins, wine is better, really. YOU grab some wineskins at Harga’s and bring them back. Carrot can tell him we’ll pay later. Also get a stretcher, no, a door, something hard enough so he won’t sag. He can’t even hold his head up.” Angua was now twisting the unresponsive ear nearest to her. The wolf twitched but didn’t pull away.

 

He sniffed. “I’ll run as fast as I can in these paws, but I fink you’d be faster and more able to communicate with the boy.” He crept closer and tried to nudge her.

 

“Get the most ribs you possibly can and I’ll let you have some! With the meat and sauce! NOW GO!” The growl reverberated down his spine, and there were undertones of “I’m getting angry and you don’t want to see me when I’m angry.” She reached for one the chickens, and as he watched in horror, bit its head off with her human teeth. She didn’t even seem to realize it, and tore the chicken to pieces. 

He couldn’t restrain a widdle as he shivered. She was so beautiful and so glorious to run with he sometimes forgot the strength of her jaws. 

As soon as his stubby legs passed the Water Gate, he began the Howl. It was the only way they’d locate Captain Armor-polish-and-soap in time. The Howl was picked up first by Lucky, a small three-legged dog with one good eye and one good ear, and broadcast as loudly as a yipping voice could. Then another, and another, and in a few minutes the sound was audible outside Ludmilla Cake’s window. Her ears pricked, and she shoved her nose into the hand of the man who lay on the bed next to her.

“I hear it too.” Her lover was human tonight. Lupine had pointed ears he hid with long hair, and had to shave three times a day, when the full moon turned him into a man. Ludmilla had found him, her man-wolf, and they got along together much better than anyone would suppose. 

Lupine sat up, already fully clothed, and pulled on his boots. Ludmilla would undress when he was a wolf, and pet him the whole night while wearing only her shift, but he’d never been comfortable being naked. He felt vulnerable, worried that he wouldn’t be able to protect her if by some foul chance they were discovered. Now it meant that he could rise quickly, softly steal down the hallway, and open the door for them.

Gaspode heard the Howl reverse when Ludmilla carried it back to him. Running as fast as he could on his scabby paws, he met them at Peach Pie street.

“It’s Angua,” wheezed Gaspode. “Another werewolf—don’t—know—how—got here, almost dead—get Carrot.”

“I think he’ll be in the Mended Drum.” Lupine hesitated, then scooped up Gaspode. The little dog trembled and shook—he couldn’t run any more. Lupine could, and raced with Ludmilla to the disreputable tavern on Filigree Street.  


%%%%%%%%%%

Carrot slumped as he sat in the Drum, looking at the celebration. He wished he were asleep in his small flat. He never felt easy on full moon nights, not since he’d pulled his sword on Angua that first time. She hasn't told him she was a werewolf before they were together. She'd changed in the night as the full moon arose, but they'd been asleep. He'd never forgotten the shock of finding a golden werewolf in the bed and charging after it. Logically she should be safe—she had her collar for daytime use, and had cubbyholes with extra clothes stored in several places around the city. He would never tell her he’d thought about asking her to bite him. If he could share her whole life, he wouldn’t worry as much. It would give him another identity to balance, though—human and dwarf fought in his heart more than he showed, and even the King crept out occasionally. He would never take up the crown, wanting only to remain in the Watch, but sometimes his hidden lineage grumbled at him. Human, dwarf, king, and werewolf—it might be too much. 

He sighed and returned his attention to the table. Everyone had decided to celebrate tonight. It was rare that anyone stared at the multi-vital Watch—they knew what was good for them—but Cheery had been promoted today to Sergeant, and the dwarf had celebrated with weaving multiple pink ribbons into her beard braids, pushing that 1st-female-dwarf-presentation up another notch. Commander Vimes planned to give her a lance-constable to boss as soon as the recruit had been pummeled into shape by Sergeant Detritus. The first troll in the Watch, Detritus had been a splatter in a bar like the Drum, chained to a wall.(Like a bouncer, only harder.) Carrot had knocked him out cold on their first meeting, which helped now with their Captain/Sergeant ranks. Now he ran the training facility, even if he couldn’t count beyond four. Colon, Nobby, Detritus, and Reg—human, allegedly human, troll, zombie—squashed around one small table, and another had been shoved together for him, Cheery, Dorfl the golem, and the recruit, the Klatchian Lana, human—although not that long ago many Ankh-Morpork citizens expressed doubts about Klatchians on that score. Lana was now the first. Her family had immigrated from Klatch, and were still suspiciously foreign. She didn’t drink, but she was sharp, knew the customs, and shouted for the first round.

A man and a dog erupted into the bar, and every head turned. People reached for weapons but the man tossed Gaspode to the floor, threw his hands up and rushed to the Watch table. Carrot’s hand didn’t even move because he recognized them. 

Lupine gasped, “Captain Carrot, Angua needs you tonight. I’ve heard on the Howl that there’s a badly injured w—alright, alright—a man who’s nearly dead outside the Water Gate. She wants you to bring ribs from Harga’s—yes, I know—bones with meat too, and water or wine—and did she say windows?“ Lupine stopped for a second, and Carrot heard a small voice say, “Sheesh, humans, she wants a wood thingie, door, wassit, for a stretcher. Woof woof.”

Carrot bent his head down to Gaspode and scratched his ravaged ears without a shudder. “Nice little doggie. Does she need anything else? Bandages?That’s a good doggie, here’s a treat for you.”  


“Woof woof, ta, thanks. It’s not a man, it’s a wolf. Woof woof.”

Gaspode turned and tried to run but was stopped when Carrot grabbed him by the scruff.

“This dog is filthy, I’m taking him outside.”

“Filthy? I don’t fink so. I worked hard for this. Don’t shake me you giant idiot.” 

Once outside the tavern, Carrot’s voice was low and insistent. “Tell me about the wolf—a werewolf, right?”

“Yes, but I don’t know nuffink! She and I was chasing chickens, then poof!” It was like a rain of fish, sudden like. Woof Woof Bark Bark. He’s nearly a goner and he smells like wizards, put me down!” 

The entire Watch had pounded out of the Drum and half of them were on their way to Harga’s. Carrot’s yell stopped them.

“Washpot, Reg, go back to the watch house and tear up sheets for bandages! Dorfl, go find me a door. Nobby, Colon, go to Harga’s, get the ribs and meat! And—Detritus, get me a barrel of water. And a bucket, a washing size bucket, to pour it in.”

He eyes flashed to Cheery and Lana. “You’re with me.”

“Gaspode, you lead us.”

“I fink not. These paws are worn out—”

“Here, lance-constable, you carry him.”

“What in the world do we want him for?” Lana sounded disgusted.

“He’s, uh, he works for the Watch sometimes. He’s a tracker. He’ll bark and show us the way.”

Lana looked at him, revolted. Carrot remembered that Klatchians did not keep dogs because they were thought dirty. That would go triple for Gaspode, but he wasn’t going to back down. If she wanted the watch, she’d have to touch much fouler things than Gaspode. 

“That’s an order, lance-constable,” he demanded as Lana’s eyes went wild at the vile-smelling dog. Her medium-brown complexion paled as much as she could, and she stared in loathing, but grimly held her arms out.

They ran.

%%%%%%%%%%


	2. Tonks and the Witches

When the mail coach from Lancre pulled into the Ankh-Morpork post office yard at midnight, all was in turmoil. A large woman with hair coiled up into a shape like a snail over each ear shouted to smaller men.

“Light torches! Bring out blankets! Draw water!”

The crowd prevented Magrat from viewing more than a smidgen of what lay on the ground, but it was appallingly enough.

She thrust open the mail coach door, winced as she stretched her stiff legs, and approached the crowd. Five years ago she would have murmured, “scuse me,” but being a queen and mother had extinguished that Magrat. 

“MOVE PLEASE.” The voice didn’t command as much as the leaden tones of Death, of course, but was impressive coming from a thin nondescript woman, with an unruly mass of frizz and split ends that still awaited a Good Hair Day. When the men nearest her stared, she raised a decisive eyebrow, and they scurried out of her way.

There was a woman in the mail office yard, head lolled to one side, unmoving, with arms and legs sprawled. Oddly dressed in a red leather coat which hung almost to her ankles, she was full-figured, wearing a black buttonless sweater, and…black trousers? She also wore a thick pair of boots, much heavier than Magrat's. Her face, left shoulder, and chest had a long slash across them—no, a deep burn in a wicked slice. She wasn’t breathing and her face was dull blue. Magrat had no way of knowing it, but Tonks's killer had only struck her down, not minced her as Dolohov had done to Remus. She pressed forward until she could kneel by the woman and placed her hands over the still form. Black aura, black aura, black—red! A tiny, single spark of red over her heart! It flickered, faltered, faded to a pinpoint.

“Verence!” Magrat bellowed. “Bring my bag!”

She didn’t see him, but felt the wave of his presence as he roughly shouldered away the gawking men. Five years as king had changed him as well.

Without looking up, Magrat reached out her hand for her medical bag. “Get around to the other side!” She placed her hand on the woman’s chest. It felt creaky, and she could tell ribs had been broken. She’d have to be careful, she thought grimly, but broken ribs couldn’t hold her back.

She yanked a leather device from the bag and tossed it to Verence. it was like a clown’s squeaky horn with the squeaker removed.

“She’s not completely dead—get it over her mouth, go!”

Verence was the monarch and absolutely ruler of Lancre and a very smart man. Without a word he grabbed the object and skootched over to the woman’s head. He kneeled and fitted the soft leather horn over the woman’s mouth and nose and pressed its bulb slowly. It hissed over her lips, and he adjusted it tighter, then repeated.

Magrat closed her eyes, gathering power as she inhaled. She centered her hands at the bottom edge of the sternum, away from the deep burn, closed one fist around the other, and eased them down. She and Verence had created this technique to save those nearly drowned in Lancre River. This had to be deep and firm, but not too quick, or more ribs might shatter. One, two, three, four, five—she continued up to fifteen, and then motioned for Verence to pump the horn again.

Then she positioned her hands palms-out above the body at heart level, and swept them toward head and foot. She recast the spell five more times. She and Verence copied the cycle three times more before she stopped to check the aura again. Black, black—red! A faint circle over the heart throbbed weakly, and a network of red glowed throughout the body.

It worked!, thought Magrat. She’d never tried this on a human before, but she’d saved a newborn lamb this way. Transport the blood away from the heart, and it found its own path. She thrust her left hand out to the side, palm up, not looking, and barked, “Scumble!” in the same manner that a chirurgeon might snap “Scalpel!”

The small plump figure she knew was at her side pulled up her skirt and extracted a small bottle from her interior clothes. Nanny Ogg pulled the cork out and carefully deposited the open bottle in Magrat’s hand. Magrat planted a finger over the bottle opening, inverted it, and when Verence retracted the horn, carefully traced a line of liquid below the woman’s nose. If scumble didn’t work—if they needed to do presses again, Verence would do it alone because she’d have to rummage through her bag. Had she packed the sage? The marigold, the white willow, and the foxglove? No reaction. She grimly tried another thin line, and the nostrils fluttered. “Here.” Another voice spoke from the right side. “It’s my triple distilled white mountain peach brandy. Try it on her lips.” 

Good idea. Granny Weatherwax’s peach brandy was feared as a powerful stimulant. Magrat reached for this second bottle. Scumble would kick you in the teeth, but the peach brandy would march down your throat, demanding respect from each inch of tissue it passed. She held the woman’s lower lip down gently and pressed two drops there. No change, no change— Magrat deposited two more drops of peach brandy. They heard a harsh strangle. Another gulp of air, rough, shallow. Verence began to replace the horn, but Magrat gave her one more drop and the breath steadied. For a second her hair, previously a matted dull brown, flashed bright pink. Everyone startled, and Nanny Ogg and Granny narrowed their eyes. If the woman created that effect nearly dead—what was she?

The big woman with the snail hair buns murmured to Magrat. “Ma’am? What can we do? We’ve a bed ready for her inside.”

“Thank you. I’m Magrat, Queen of Lancre, and my husband here is King Verence. I must check her further before moving her. And you are—?

“Miss Iodine Maccalariat, your majesty. I’ve never seen anyone switch their hair like that. Is she a witch?” The big woman sounded horrified and a bit disgusted.

“I will let you know when she can be moved. Please bring blankets-do you have any hot water bottles? Have your workers put together a stretcher for her. And the four of us need tea.” Magrat’s expression was pleasant, but you couldn’t call it a smile. Miss Maccalariat curtsied awkwardly and backed away in a shuffle.

Granny and Nanny Ogg smirked viciously at each other. Magrat was no longer the wet hen she’d been as the third of the coven-they-did-not-have. Though she fussed about the fiddly potions she refined, and wore more magical jewelry and charms than a witch should need, she had the queening all down. Granny was the better witch because she knew the amounts of herbs and potions didn’t matter—and Magrat was the better healer because she knew they did.

“A witch, huh,” muttered Nanny as Magrat shook out a small white cloth from her bag. “Bet Magrat would like to get that spell off her. But where’d she come from? No pink-haired witches I’ve ever heard of.”

Magrat tapped her cloth with a wand (Who used a wand! That was a show-off child’s toy, Nanny and Granny agreed. Magrat was still a wet drip in some ways.) The cloth sprang into a low holding table. It sprouted out empty bottles, vials of red, blue, and amber liquids, and measuring spoons. The colors were pure Boffo, inactive floral tints. Magrat understood that belief in a potion was almost as good as the potion itself, another change from five years earlier. A mixing tray popped up, with batches of herbs tied up in red ribbons. Another tray emerged, this one lined with healing stones and crystals, including the tiny chips Magrat had reverently received from the young trolls Miss Fire Agate and Miss Blue Lace Agate. She hadn’t even looked up to see whether the Maccalariat woman had retreated.

Nanny snorted.

“Gytha Ogg, don’t you dare laugh. You’ll distract her.”

At this moment Magrat looked up from her table with a desperate expression. “Granny, Nanny, can you manage her here? I must mix the herbs correctly, and it will take a few minutes.” Twin glares lighted on Magrat, and she froze. A witch never commented on another witch’s power, and Magrat had just implied the older witches had less than she. In another circumstance this would be a horrifying mistake—she’d only made it because she was frantic to mix the potion.

Panic-stricken, she sputtered, “I mean, if you keep her alive, and she doesn’t need the herbs, I’ll, I’ll, make up my mixture and stopper it.” Her voice was agitated. “But I think she may need it, it will help her strength. Please.” Nanny was the first to move, not because she had less pride than Granny, but because she could see that the situation was unstable, touch-and-go. Nanny had taken a person from Death three times in all her years, and it had dissipated her strength for over a week every time. Magrat had restarted the breath and heart, and forced the blood to move again—no time to sit back and cackle.

She hauled herself to her feet, bustled around to the opposite side, lifted the woman’s hand and gripped it. Because Death hadn’t popped up didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding near them.

I NEVER POP. TOO HARD ON THE KNEES.

“Your Lordship! No place for you here, sir.” Nanny was always polite. “She’s got her heartbeat and breath, and you can leave. She’s ours. You’ve never faced all three of us at once, and we’ll give you a hard time. You’ll want Esme to readjust your back someday, and we’d appreciate it if you’d mosey away.” She reached into her bosom and pulled up a small bag. Death was amazed that the contents were not sugar cubes, of which he disapproved, but dried apple slices. Nanny shook out several and brought them to the white horse's mouth. Binky lipped them up and butted her hand for more. She stroked the velvet-soft nose.

The hooded seven-foot skeleton considered this. Certainly he could scythe the blue cord linking body to soul—it was thin and wavery. But he’d waited out the witches before, and it gave him a headache to play that many games of Cripple Mr. Onion. He could always come back. I WILL REMOVE FOR A TIME. IF I RETURN, SHE WILL COME TO ME. His eyes glowed blue.

“Thank you, your Lordship, and I have these for the cats.” He received another soft bag which crackled when he grasped it. “It’s deer heart, rubbed with bear fat and covered in chicken skin, then roasted slowly to mix the juices. Then I dried it for two weeks.”

I DID NOT KNOW BEARS LIVED HERE.

Nanny snorted. “They don’t.”

Death accepted the bag and faded from view. I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT IN KLATCH. I WILL TRY THE CURRY.

Nanny exhaled. If Death had refused the deer chips she had made, there was the dwarf bread she’d ground finely and re-baked with tiny snippets of lamb and mint. Another travel mix she created, it was good for months. When she soaked it with cider, the dwarf bread minerals would drop to the bottom of the pot and leave their grain fillers at the top with the lamb. Dwarf bread itself was nearly impossible to eat, and she didn’t think he’d break _his_ teeth on it, but in the dry form it was only satisfying for dwarfs.

In her conversation with Death Nanny hadn’t noticed that Verence had shifted away. Esme had migrated to the girl’s head, knelt, and eased her hands around each side of the face. Nanny had seen her perform headology many times to manipulate someone’s mind, but never on an unconscious person. She didn't know whether the senior witch had ever tried it. Granny whispered as her hands cradled the deathly-ill witch’s head. Her eyes were squinted almost shut. Gytha Ogg guarded the inert form and hung onto her hand, thinking. Magrat used herbals and crystal magic, and Esme performed headology. Her specialty was that she possessed a ferocious love of life and grasped all the pleasure she could from it.

“Well, missy, I don’t know if you have a mister to go back to, but with your bosom and that hair, I don’t see why you wouldn’t." She kissed the limp hand, caressed it. "He’s probably frantic to find you, missing you somethin’ terrible, and you need to get back to him. You’ve got plenty o’ time ahead of you now that Binky and his Master have buggered off.”

AHEM

“I thought you were going for that curry, and I don’t smell it now, sir. If she’s a witch from a place with different rules, mebbe she has a wizard there and we all know what that means.” With that she launched into the infamous ditty “A Wizard’s Staff Has a Knob on the End.” She didn’t hear a sound, but the air trembled and she smelled a desert. The sands would be sparkling black, and it could go on forever. But she felt a presence withdraw and breathed deeply. No one here was passing through the dark door today.


	3. Remus and the Watch.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watch gathers to help Remus.

Carrot was the first to reach Angua. It would be two hours until the sun rose; whatever happened here, she needed to find clothes before then. He cursed himself that he hadn’t brought his satchel with him, as he had a uniform for her. She was sitting in front of a strange wolf, trying to push a piece of raw chicken into his mouth. The new one was laying on his side, not moving except his jaws. As Carrot gently sat down beside Angua, the wolf gulped the chicken. Angua pressed against him and whined. He needed the translator, and luckily Lana was right behind him. She braked to a stop, and dropped Gaspode.

“Hav’ a care, lady, these poor bones can’t take it." Gaspode scrambled up to his feet and glared.

“Are you sure you’re not a talking dog?” She looked desperately at Carrot for answers, but he ignored her.

“Gaspode, tell me what’s happened since you left.” Carrot scraped a clearing in the cabbage field, started a fire with a flint, and blocked in the fire pit with earth.

Lana frowned at him. Too weird by half. “Is he a werewolf too? A weredog?” she demanded. No-one looked even likely to help her; they were concentrating on the three-way conversation.

Angua whined again, then yipped.

“Cap’n, the wolf is eatin’ better. Angua’s got him wolfing his food, ha ha, wolfing, but she can’t get enuff in him. Sun’s gonna come up and he’ll shift. If he’s not better, see—” Gaspode scratched his ear, then worried a flea colony on his left flank. It was all for show. He was happy with the fleas, had collected an entire set now. "If he’s still this bad when the sun comes up, he’ll, like, die.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I can hear you talking.” Lana interrupted. Cheery put a hand on her arm, mouthed, “later.”

“No, cours’ not, dogs can’t talk. Woof Woof Bark Bark good grief. Cap’n, he needs bone soup. Ask her.”

“Angua, what do we need to do for him?” Angua jerked her head around as the rest of the Watch joined them. She pawed the huge pail, then the sack of ribs, whined. Gaspode sighed. Humans. S'good job for them he was here.

“Light a fire, crack the bones, give some to the little doggie, crush the bones to bits, then cook them. Sheesh, do I hav’ to tell humans how to make soup?”

“I _know_ about the soup.” Carrot’s voice had an edge. “Does he need anything else?”

Reg and Washpot pushed their way to the front. “We got the bandages.” They placed a pile of cloth on the ground; it was almost two feet high. Carrot noticed that Reg had wrapped a small bandage around one of his fingers. The zombie would have to re-attach it when they got back to the Watch House.

Detritus brought the barrel of water and a two-foot wide vat to pour it in, as Nobby and Colon appeared with the ribs and bones. They were already cooked, good, this would save time, Carrot thought.  
“Detritus, Angua needs the bones crushed up in little pieces—then put them in the vat.”

In five minutes the mound of bones rested in the vat in tiny chips, and Lana was much farther away from Detritus. He grinned and rumbled.

“Trolls always do dat when we catch a human in the mountains. Mak’n’ it easy for the bebby trolls, see?”

The rest of the Watch hadn’t budged. They all knew he was only trying to frighten her. Carrot caught Detritus’s eye and glared. It was normal for the Watch to haze a new Watch member, but not to threaten to eat them. He’d deal with Detritus later. Cheery had brought rocks, and she deposited them in the pit, making a place for the vat. In a few minutes the soup was bubbling. She examined the wolf, shook her head. “He bled all over, but it’s stopped now. I have no idea how much he lost. It’s amazing he didn’t die from that. We should wrap his legs. He may bleed again when we move him. I wish there was a way to get under him to wrap him.”

Carrot glanced at the wolf again. Angua was lying with her head pressed as close to him as possible, licking under his chin and rubbing his muzzle.

“Don’t mean nuffink, she’s just tryin’ keep him awake,” said Gaspode quickly.

The soup was ready, and Cherry put some in a bowl. The wolf tried to raise his head, but couldn’t. He whined and lay back down. Angua whined as well, and pawed at Carrot’s leg.

“I’ll spoon it into him,” said Carrot calmly. He squatted next to Angua, took the wolf’s jaw in his hand, and raised a spoon. It was lapped clean. Back and forth, back and forth went the spoon.  
%%%%%%%%%%%%  
Remus was aware of much more by the time a troupe of strange characters rushed up to him. The female werewolf told him they were from the Watch, but she hadn’t explained why the different shapes—that one had to be a dwarf—a small sized person with a beard and helmet—but pink ribbons in a beard?

There was a very large man who seemed to be made of rock, an even larger person who looked like a myth from Eastern Europe, ceramic with glowing eyes. All the others were human, and there were no witches or wizards of any kind. Good, he thought, and tried to sleep. The female wolf, Angua, she was Angua, wouldn’t let him alone, though. When a delicious broth was placed in front of him he attempted to eat it. Too much pain in his neck, though. He wasn’t that surprised when a tall human male with red hair sat down to feed him, though he was startled when he realized his smell had been on Angua’s fur. Probably her mate, then. There were no suspicious odors radiating from him, but Angua kept glancing between them.

And I can’t explain that I’m married, because I can’t lift my head. Or used to be married—where is Tonks now? She never should have come after me. She should have been with Teddy, never been at the battle. We tried to be safe all those months. Where am I? He whined, and lapped another spoonful. What am I going to do when the sun comes up? Oh, I see, they have boards—a door? For a stretcher, to move me somewhere, and those are bandages. Enough, I hope. But my spine is on fire. Dolohov hit me with the avada kedavra, I should be dead.

After eating as much as he could swallow the first time, he lay on his side and let them wrap his legs, and start wiping blood from his fur. He whined when cuts in his skin started to bleed again, though, and they stopped.

The dwarf sat beside him, and carefully felt his spine and neck every few minutes. He knew everything was still broken, but after the first hour of soup they were possibly less tender.

Every time he closed his eyes for more than a few seconds, Angua licked or nipped him. His ears, his nose—she was relentless. She woke him up and her big mate—much larger than Remus—would bring the rich broth to his lips. It took nearly an hour before he could lift his neck up to lap by himself, and then crunch some bones. Now he felt his own shattered bones begin to close. His neck was hurting less. He cautiously arched his back. It didn't stab him with pain; probably healed enough that he could be moved. He could breathe deeper; his ribs had healed. The legs though—they were not much better. It was going to be a race against time, because when the sun broke the horizon, he would shift, and for the first time in his life he wished the night would be longer.

Also, he realized that he was sane, not a monster, and that he had no urge to lunge at anyone. The full moon had not been his enemy. This was a strange place—werewolves must have better lives. What would it be like not to fear himself? He wouldn't have needed to lock himself into the Shrieking Shack. He wouldn't have the scars of his own jaws. The Marauders shared the danger with him and made the night less lonely, but he could have eaten the rat Animagus form of Peter Pettigrew in one bite if the man hadn't been careful. He should have. The wolfsbane kept him from killing anyone, but owing his, and the world's, safety to Severus Snape hadn't been pleasant. He’d bet that Fenrir Grayback would still find a path to evil though. He always would.

They brought over the door, and the dwarf felt his spine again. It ached, but he could hold his head straight. When he wasn’t expecting it, Angua’s mate took a long strip of bandage and wrapped it around his jaws, tying them closed. Angua growled, bumped the man with her shoulder, and tried to shove him away. But Remus understood. He would do the same thing, although he wouldn’t expect a piece of cloth to restrain a wolf. One as weak as he was, though—yes, it would do. Good. He wasn’t going to bite anybody even by accident.  
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%  
“Slide the door over here.” said Carrot. “Dorfl and Detritus, you move him." He looked at the horizon and the few pink clouds. "We need to be back at the Watch House in twenty-five minutes.”

“I Could Carry Him Without The Board,” the golem offered. Angua growled again much louder, and she insinuated herself between the wolf and Dorfl. Carrot reached down to her shoulder, stroked it, ran his hand quickly through her fur. "It's okay. He'll be alright. No, thank you, Dorfl. Support the spine with your hands. Keep it flat all the way down. Detritus, you have his neck and shoulders.” The other Watch coppers stood back, ready to dart forward if there was sagging. “On the board now, please. One, two, three—”

Cherry monitored him with her hands as he was scooted. His heart was beating fast, but it had been beating fast ever since she got to him. Fast but still weak.

“Twenty minutes until dawn. Pick the door up now.” Carrot instructed calmly. The soup had been poured into the water barrel, stowed on the door, tied down, as were the meat scraps, wrapped in bandages. The extra cloths themselves lay completely over the wolf to shield him from gawkers. “Fast as we can, smooth, no bumps. Go.”

The Ankh-Morpork traffic wasn’t heavy at dawn, but there could be no delays. They passed the Water Gate at the ten-minute mark. The Watch cleared a path, Carrot in front with Angua, Colon and Nobby on one side protecting Detritus, Reg and Washpot on the other, flanking Dorfl. Cheery swung her ax at the rear in case someone was terminally stupid.

Lana hadn’t finished training yet. She’d never seen werewolves before a week ago, and still had a bit of silver jewelry under her uniform, but she was beginning to understand what Commander Vimes had explained about a multi-vital force. It was an honor to serve and protect a life, no matter how unfamiliar that life was, and if she needed to break a bone to do it, she would be delighted to swing her baton. But even before the wolf had been loaded onto the stretcher, Carrot had sent her to find Commander Vimes, on the double.

They breached the door to the Watch House as the sun broke the horizon, and carried him into a cell. It was the only place wide enough for a door and attendants around it, and they laid him down carefully as his limbs began to draw together.  
%%%%%%%%%%  
Sam Vimes waited impatiently, feeling grim as the sky brightened, and as soon as—they were not pallbearers, no matter what it had looked like—Dorfl and Detritus withdrew, he surged into the cell. The werewolf was thrashing, his fur was withdrawing—"Blanket!” he growled, but Carrot was already there with one. Vimes was not at all sure what he’d do with a broken man, if the man even survived his change, but he’d agreed with Carrot. It was too far to take him to the Lady Sibyl, and they had Igor.

Igor was on the other side of the stretcher. He knelt quietly, one scarred hand on the shaking body.

“D’ya need anything, Igor?” The soup and meat were well to the side, but ready for use immediately.

“No, thir. I can’t thee how much he will bleed until the thkin reappears.”

The Watch Igor had never lost his speech defect and continued to pronounce some esses.

The curled figure under the blanket continued to shiver, whining in pain, then an odd pause, and it was screaming. The man was screaming. Vimes rubbed his forehead, and wished he could leave. He had heard Angua’s quiet change this morning when she’d raced to the locker room of the watch house. She had left it closer than she usually did, but her change merely sounded like a grunt and two big slabs of meat thumping together. He couldn’t imagine, did not want to imagine, what it would be like if she had to change with wounds all over her, seconds from dying. Angua returned from the locker room, and pushed past Vimes and Igor. She kneeled and wrapped one arm around the strange wolf’s —strange man’s—upper arms. She pressed the other hand onto his bare shoulder and upper back, and squeezed it. Her intent was to keep him still and calm so he wouldn’t injure himself, Vimes saw. Her blond hair fell over her face and he couldn’t see it. He wished he knew what Carrot thought, then realized he didn’t want to know. The man himself came into the cell.

"Do I need to get his legs?," he asked. Angua nodded but didn't look up. Carrot sat down cross-legged on the other side and gripped the quivering hips with one hand. He leaned over the blanket to catch up the legs in a gentle but firm hold.

Igor moved quickly around Angua and Carrot and didn’t disturb them. He pressed packs against the belly, which seemed to be bleeding the most, and then wrapped bandages wherever he could reach. Head, ears, neck—the man would look like a mummy at this rate, and Vimes cursed, rejected the thought.

At last there was only quiet sounds, possibly sobs. Vimes jerked his head up as Colon gestured to him, and he left the cell. Carrot stood up and followed them.

Angua bent over the stranger, hand on his head, pressed a bandage there. Still so much bleeding. They had to get more food into him. She was close to panic. Even a wolf could die. The man spoke his first words, and she repeated them. They made no sense. He said something again, a garbled whisper. “Tass.” “Tnk.” “T’n.”

“What? Tell me. Talk to me.” He garbled another word with a Tsss in it. As she bent lower he said, “Mff. M’wif. Wre’s my fff.” She still could not understand. “Please, I can’t understand. What do you want?”

He opened his eyes for the first time and she saw pain that was not physical. “Where’s Tonks? My wife. Whr’s m’wife?”

Angua stilled for a moment, and only then realized how much she’d hoped for something which would never happen. She would never run free with a man—a wolf— who knew every part of her. Never run wild and howl with another wolf, and she hadn’t acknowledged to herself how much she wanted it. She never questioned her bond to Carrot when she was wolf, and he'd help her this night without any hesitation. But sitting and lying next to another werewolf for hours—saving his life—she’d never had any similar experience. The only werewolves she knew were her own family. Wolfgang had driven away any others within Uberwald, those he hadn't killed. She’d tasted this wolf—tasted Remus—no hint of the ugly grey-red hatred that swirled around Wolfgang—she licked his mouth and chin as werewolves did in greetings, pushed chunks of food to his jaws. She hadn’t smelled any other wolf on him, and while she was under the moon, that was all she’d needed to know. Time stretched oddly as a wolf. Even when he’d only been on the Disc a few hours she seemed to have known him forever, as she licked and nuzzled him. But he’d been unconscious and she’d not felt his bond to a human female until this moment.

She was a Watchman, a captain, and she already had someone who shared as much as he possibly could. Carrot was honest down to his core. She had not smelled any anger or rage while he was in the field or cell with them. Plenty of worry, even the fear his human expression didn't allow. She didn’t know the strange wolf at all, despite their physical bond as beast to beast. She'd fought for his life; that was instinctive. He had other connections long before his arrival on the Disc, minutes from death. It was pure fantasy to entertain personal thoughts. One deep breath, and she spoke to him as a professional.

“I don’t know where your wife is, but we’ll find her. We need to put bandages on you, and get some soup into you again.”

“She’s prolly dead. Bellatrix. She prolly killed her." He continued. “They killed me. I’m dead. I must be dead. It was a killing curse.”

“Who?”— The odor of fear poured of skin and the organs beneath—and the dense, green, oily smell had the undertone of octarine.

“Wizards!” she exclaimed. “He was attacked—" “Killed. We were killed.” said a sad whisper. “Killed.” Angua shook her head, turned to Vimes, who had re-entered the cell. “Wizards did this. Not ours. And he thinks—and—and he thinks they killed his wife.” She could smell the man’s grief as a deep purple-blue, and it mingled with her own grief for him.

Vimes gestured to her and she pushed herself up and walked out. The bundle under the blanket was still trembling but not crying.

“I don’t think his wife is dead, yet.”

“What? How could you?—”

“Because I got a runner two minutes ago. The Lady Sibyl has a strange woman, brought in last night by the witches. She was found in the post office coach yard, with unusual burns. They think she might be a witch; I don’t know, but they smelled it too. Wizards. And they don’t know whether she’ll live. The witches and the Igors are still working with her. She hasn’t woken up.”  
Vimes studied Angua as she leaned against the door to the cell. Every muscle slumped and she seemed ready to fall. He couldn’t imagine the hours she’d spent lying in a cabbage field and wasn’t surprised when she whispered. “We can’t tell him now. He still has broken bones, he’s got to eat more soup. “

Vimes looked at her with an expression she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand. “We need to tell him now.”

She shook her head. "No. He's still in such agony."

"He thinks his wife is dead; he can have poppy syrup as soon as we tell him. Angua, it’s going to give him hope. He’ll fight for her.”

She nodded. He would never run with her. Wolves didn’t look back. She was a Watch captain with a job to do and she marched into the cell.

“Remus—I’m going to give you soup again, and I have news for you. A woman was found on the other side of the city at the same time you were. We don’t know her name yet, but she was wearing a long red coat, a black sweater, and black trousers. She is in hospital now.”

Remus’s breath stuttered, more irregular. Angua continued quickly.

“Also, she has brown hair but they tell me it flashed bright pink for a few seconds. I don’t know—” and he was breathing deeper. Tears slid from his eyes.

“Tonks, ‘s’ Tnks.”

“You think it’s your wife?”

“’S’ her. Pinkkkk h’r.” The man’s lips twitched in a tiny smile.

Angua smiled even while tears gathered in her eyes. Vimes had been right, he needed hope.

“Good, good. They’re taking care of your wife. But you need to get better before you can go to the hospital. You’re too weak. Your bones are too weak.”

The man started to nod yes and stopped from pain.

“Right then, this is what we have to do until you can sit up.”

How could she get broth down him? He couldn’t eat until he could sit up, or at least get his head up far enough on pillows. The two-legged form was very inferior.

She dragged a bowl of soup to her, careful not to spill, and sank down to sit on her heels. Worry started to pulse in her head, but this was the only way she could think of. She dipped her index finger in the soup, then slowly bent toward him, protecting it from dripping with her other hand. Some bread would help with this. They had some—she’d call for it in a moment.

“Here, open your mouth, I’ve got a drop. Just a drop. Let’s get it in there. Yes, I think bread would work. Washpot!” she yelled. “Bring me some bread.”  
%%%%%%%%%%%%%  
Remus didn’t know how long he nibbled at soup-soaked bread. When his neck hurt less and he attempted to turn to his back, green mismatched hands gently supported him and made him comfortable. He could hear a quiet discussion going on:

“I think he’th had all the broth he can take, and he needth to rest.”

“Igor, I barely got a cup down him, and he can’t crunch any bones.”

The first voice was patient but firm.

“The bone marrowth were cruthhed up, Captain Angua and that’th in the soup. It will do for now. Retht ith what he needth.”

“Well—tell me as soon as he’s awake.”

“Yeth, Captain.”  
%%%%%%%%%%  
Angua and Vimes walked upstairs to the offices. Vimes was suddenly embarrassed because he remembered Angua and Carrot sleeping, and other things, in the little office they were passing. From what he’d learned from Colon, Nobby, Reg, Washpot—anyone present at the rescue site except for Carrot—Angua had been kissing this man all night long. Not actually kissing, but licking him on the mouth, they said, and nipping him.

He didn’t often think about Angua as an animal. In whatever form she took, she was his officer, working for the Watch to apprehend criminals and put the fear of—Angua—in them. He knew that she chased chickens on full moon nights, often with the horrible Gaspode, but—he’d always thought of it as though she’d been on a bender, drunk all night but pulling herself together for work the next day. This though—she’d been wolf, in close fuzzy contact with another wolf—for hours. What was time like to a wolf?

If he’d been introduced to Sybil by having to kiss her for hours, desperately trying to keep her alive, instead of desperately trying to keep her alive by rescuing her from a dragon—the threat of death would provide the same kind of intense bonding, but the kissing—that would be different. He had no idea what Angua might feel as a woman, as a wolf—fortunately that was not his responsibility.

“Get some rest for a few hours. When you wake up, you’re to stay here, liaise with him. Feed him if Igor isn’t. Keep Igor from sewing on any extra fingers or ears. Get any information that might help us.” As she opened her mouth to protest, a chilly voice spoke from the office ahead—his very own office!

“I’m afraid that Captain Angua must stay awake for a few minutes to explain the situation to me in detail.”

He should have realized Vetinari had the news by now. The Patrician had sources everywhere.

“It lacked only you to make this perfect,” he said. “I was going to report as soon as I gave orders to Angua and Carrot, and I don’t understand why you came to my Watch house instead of waiting.”

“Commander Vimes, need I remind you that in fact it is the City’s Watch house, and—” The silken voice had undertones which irritated him.

“No, my lord, you do not need to remind me of anything, and in fact I do know why you’re here. You want to see him. Well, he’s sleeping, and Igor is very strict about visitors—he wants to keep his patient quiet—”

“I can be very quiet—” Now Vetinari was mocking him.

“So I’ve heard—you have to be quiet when you scramble up drainpipes at your age—” Flexible, he mused. Vetinari must be flexible as well as quiet, with whipcord muscles he hid under those black robes. Not that he would ever have opportunity or need to find out what was under the robes. Or even wanted to find out.

“I scramble up drainpipes, Commander, as you put it, about as often as you skulk around on stormy nights checking up on your people, for the same reason—” Vetinari's voice was light.

“So you’re skulking around spying on me, is that right? How often - I don't have time now.' Vimes thought about Vetinari following him around, watching him. It wasn't a completely unwelcome idea. 

At this point Angua snarled and bared her teeth. _“Io’s eyeballs, please stop it!”_  
Angua’s voice trailed off at their combined outraged expressions, then she asserted, all in a rush,“Look, I do my best, Commander Vimes, your Lordship, not to bring my nose to work when I don’t have to, uhhhh, anyway I spent all night trying to keep someone alive when I was frightened and thought he was dying every second. I had to force myself to be human for an hour in order to think. You do not know what fresh hell that is—werewolves are not supposed to be able to do that. But I had to so I could think about what he needed, tell Gaspode, and get him to run for me.”

“I couldn’t leave this man—I had to lick his nose and nip him on the face all night, keeping him awake long enough so I could shove food into his mouth—and I didn’t have hands, so I had to use my mouth and muzzle to feed him. I didn’t know I could do that. Have never heard of a wolf doing that. With baby wolves the mothers vom—never mind, werewolves don’t do that and I wasn’t going to start. I thought about it, though. Werewolves can heal very rapidly, they heal on their own all the time, but these—these were the most horrible wounds. I’ve never seen this, never heard of anything like this. I hope to all the gods I don't believe in I never see this again. It was obscene.”

“Every single bone in his body was broken several times, plus his internal organs—you don’t need to know. You don’t _want_ to know. I’ve fed him here in the Watch house with bread and bone soup, let him lick my fingers until Igor made me stop, and I’ve been soaked in to a strange male’s—a strange man’s—anyway—to a new person’s rich personal odors, for hours. I’ve been muzzle deep in a strange man’s fur and blood and musk, and _humans don’t even recognize pheromones_ —ummm—it’s been a difficult night. The last thing I smelled from him was evil wizards. So I’m sorry to interrupt, and that’s my report, your Lordship, Mr. Vimes. Please let me know when he wakes up.”

She didn’t wait to be dismissed, and staggered down the hallway to the old office bedroom.

Vimes looked at Vetinari, puzzled. 'I have no idea what's she's on about, do you?' 

Vetinari's lip twitched. 'No, I couldn't imagine what she's thinking.' 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%  
When Remus woke up, a female werewolf was in his...cell? Why would he be in a cell? She had a thick yellow mass of hair and grim lines at her mouth. Her costume—was it a costume? was very odd—a uniform of leather, with a metal breast plate, a thick leather half-skwhat's irt with heavy brown trousers—it was all too worn looking to be a costume—She reeked of fear. For him, he realized, and wondered why. Then the dark tentacles of confusion withdrew from his mind.

“You were with me all night.” He was still exhausted and wanted nothing but to let go and sleep. He forced himself to stay awake a second more. “You’re—Angua? Angua, right.”

“Yes, I’m Angua. You're Remus, right?”

Should he go with an alias? She didn’t smell like a Death Eater—no one here did (wherever here was; his mind wasn't clear on that.) She hadn’t been with them at Hogwarts, and he thought he knew every werewolf on their side, even those in Europe. He’d never heard of a blond wolf, and any woman this beautiful—could she be part Veela? everyone would know of her. But keeping secrets after the battle seemed ridiculous, and—

“I’m supposed to be dead. Dolohov hit me with a killing curse. Avada kedavra. Antonin Dolohov. "

“This person Dolohov attacked you?”

“In the battle; we were dueling. I thought I could take him, but he was too strong. I’ve practiced defensive and concealment spells for months. I’ve been hiding us, moving, haven’t kept up with offense and dueling. I wish I had.” He closed his eyes. 

“Dueling. There is no dueling anywhere near Ankh-Morpork, but I don’t know what there may be in Borogrovia or Mouldavia. And spells? You’re a wizard?”

The woman ground her teeth together for a moment.

“I was the first to find you, and I’ll swear every bone I smelled was broken in several places. You had cuts all over you—they went inside you—all through you”—a sudden intense angry smell from her—"but I’ve never seen any weapons that could do that.” Her face was not changing to wolf but it suddenly looked more savage. “You smelled like wizards, but our wizards don’t do things like this. Wizards did this do you?”

He kept his mouth shut.

“What is your full name, please?” Her shoulders were hunching up, like hackles rising, but she wasn’t growling, yet.

He closed his eyes, exhausted. “Remus John Lupin.” He was inside a jail cell in unknown hands. Despite Angua’s night-long battle to save his life, she had other loyalties. He had to get Tonks away from here.

“You’re a werewolf named Lupin. Right. Great alias. And where do you live, Mr. Lupin?”

"In Scotland.”

“Scotland—never heard of it. Is it near the Agatean Empire?”

“I don’t know what the Agatean Empire is. Scotland. Britain. The UK.”

She was as insistent now as she had been last night, not letting him sleep.

“Britain, Britain…Mr. Vimes, I thought I knew every country on the Disc, but there is no Britain. I think he’s raving. And he’s talking about dueling, wizards dueling—he’s making no sense.” He could smell the fear again, and anger.

“Angua.” The new voice again, with smells of red anger and gold loyalty.

“Angua, I think I might know. I don't know how it happened, but I think he broke through—I’ll bet anything he’s from Roundworld.”

“What is _that?”_

With this last bit of confusion hanging in his mind, Remus fell asleep.  
%%%%%%%%%%


	4. Tonks at the Lady Sibyl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks is moved to the Lady Sibyl for further care.

Miss Maccalariat fluttered towards Magrat, her coiled braids a little askew. Magrat quickly tapped her wand to restore everything to her bag before she got too close.

“We have no proper bedrooms here; we can only make her a pallet. Can you move her to the Lady Sybil? They have doctors, and Igors.” 

Magrat hesitated. “Not until I check her further. An empty room will be enough for now.” 

She needed more ingredients; her bag held only emergencies. They wanted water to clean the burns, first. Miss Maccalariat had yelled at her helpers and they’d built up a rough bed in an empty room with leather post-bags piled high and blankets on top of them. There was no fire, and only one lantern. It was cold, even with the blankets. They did need to move the woman soon. She bathed the woman’s face and the burn slice with water the post-office workers supplied, then sliced away the sweater carefully with her bone-handled knife. Miss Maccalariat gasped at what they saw, and Nanny hurried her out of the room.

“Thank you madam, you can bring that tea _now_ , if you would. And we’re fine in here, no need to come back.” 

Magrat, Nanny, and Granny examined the woman’s wounds. The burn on her face wasn’t deep, but it had sliced viciously through the shoulder—skin and muscle lay exposed. The slice across the woman’s chest wasn’t as deep, but it had somehow carried an ugly punch as well. Behind the burns were broken ribs. Magrat palpated, felt at least four. She hesitated. If she didn’t close the burns, the muscles would be slow to heal. If she did—dirty wounds filled with pus. 

The rest of the woman’s body was curiously untouched. No broken bones in the arms or legs, and the stomach was thankfully clear of wounds as well. Granny showed the blood on her hands from when she’d touched the woman’s head. “She’s been cut in the scalp and has a crack in the bone-box, but I’ve seen deeper. Her neck is sound.”

The enormity of the job before her suddenly dizzied Magrat. She’d pulled the woman back from death, restarted her breath and heartbeat, and now—people with all these injuries often died anyway. She breathed out, unhappy.

“She can’t stay here on sacks with no heat. They said there’s a hospital—let’s get her to it after she’s cleaned. “

They took cool water and wiped blood away gently from the sliced flesh and the cracked head, then lay clean cloth over them. Miss Maccalariat had flushed and excused herself, and come back in a few minutes with surprisingly ruffled strips from her petticoats.

The post office clerks harnessed the horses into a large cart, and the drivers picked up both the pallet and the bags under it for padding. The witches crouched down by their patient and held her still through the cart’s jounces. In only a few minutes they pulled up at a large two-story white-painted building. A man and…another man, not exactly human, with an asymmetric body and stitches on head and arms, waited for them. 

“Hello, Igor!” called Nanny. “Glad to see you.”

Granny frowned. “When did you meet him before?” she demanded.

“Not him, but his family. They’re all Igor, right my chum?” She sidled up to Igor. “They taught me a few things, when I went to Uberwald that time, and I taught them a few.” She smiled at the crooked man in a way which would have made him blush, if he could have. 

Magrat had seen Nanny flirt with many men, and even that dwarf, but—this seemed a bit outre even for her. “Nanny!” she hissed. “We have a patient.”

“O’ course, your Majesty, but it never hurts to keep in touch with old friends. Friends of friends, anyway.” She beamed at Igor again. He grinned back and nodded his sloping head.

The man—the human man—at the hospital bowed to Magrat as Granny went to supervise the transport from the cart.

“Your Majesty. Queen Magrat. I am Dr. John Lawn. You’ll find the Lady Sybil equipped with the best Ankh-Morpork has. We can take her from here”—and he stopped at the three women’s sudden fierce looks. He had been told they were witches, but it seemed that they weren’t the cackling-around-a-cauldron types. Igor bumped his shoulder, bent down.

“I told you, Thir, thethe are healerth from Lancre. They thee all kinds of thicknetheth, and injurieth. Mithreth Ogg tacked my Uncle Igor’th hand back on ath well as anyone could. “

“Ah." He breathed deeply. "Well, I’ve put her in the largest downstairs room. We’ll coordinate.”

Magrat nodded. “We will need ingredients for poultices for her wounds. I have a list.”

Dr. Lawn said, “Well, poultices can cause poor healing; I find cupping works well”— 

“We like our patients to keep _all_ their blood.” Granny said. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. Mossy Lawn reflected on his years in Ankh-Morpork and considered. These women—witches—lay healers—rural Queens—were not going to be moved. He would have to supervise them and he couldn’t let them order everyone in the hospital around. 

“Yes, well, let’s see how it goes. We do have poultice ingredients, and Igor can fetch anything you need. Do you want to stay here, ladies, your Majesty? I think the Patrician—that is, he needs to know that we have royalty here in Ankh-Morpork, and I’m sure he can give you comfortable rooms at the palace. When…you…want to rest?” It was much more tentative than he meant to be. Dammit! He was struck again with the combined torch-power stares from the older two. 

The older witches could glare all they liked, thought Magrat. _She_ was the one who’d studied all the healing she could glean in Lancre, but she’d never taken care of a person with this degree of injury. She wasn’t a doctor, didn’t like what she’d heard about bleeding—but she couldn’t bring a patient into his hospital and demand he step aside. It was his own dwelling; of course she couldn’t. She wasn’t going to leave, though. No funny business while her back was turned.

She arched her neck and looked down her nose at him while five inches shorter, an accomplishment she’d secretly practiced in her mirror. “Thank you, Dr. Lawn. That’s a generous offer that I suspect you haven’t cleared with the Patrician. I would like to stay here. In her room, or if you have one nearby?”

Nanny turned her head away and grinned. Oh, Magrat, the queening she’d learned. 

After the cart drivers had transferred the woman onto a large bed, the Lancre witches removed all her clothes. Dr. Lawn insisted that he be allowed to observe, and drew his brows down when they would have objected. 

“No disrespect to you, my ladies, but I must know what injuries she has, and whether she has any disease. She might have contagion that could spread to others.” He didn’t budge.

Magrat tensed. She hadn’t thought of contagion, only the terrible wounds. She didn’t like him, but he had given them a warm room with clean water and bandages. “Certainly,” she muttered, and he squeezed in next to them.

The rest of her body was clean with no sores, and she was of normal weight. On her back she had a few bruises from her fall, but none on the rest of her body.

“Seems she wasn’t a prisoner before she was killed,” said Dr. Lawn, as he peeked over their shoulders. “No other bruises or signs of mistreatment. I don’t think she was chained or tied up. Her wrists and ankles aren’t chafed.”

“See that a lot, do you? said Nanny. “They hurt prisoners in the big city?” 

He flinched. “Well, I see the corpses after they’re cut down from the hangings. Uh, I mean, the men in the Tanty, they’re guilty of series crimes. Murder, assault, stealing, unless the Thieves’ Guild hasn’t gotten to them first. Or spying.”

“Sooo—” Nanny snarled. “This Tanty—they tie people up an’ beat them? You take dead folks away from their families. Your Patrician has a lot to answer for. “ 

“Gytha,” snapped Granny. “We arn’t here to reform graverobbers.” 

“No, I’m not a, a, grave—look, you don’t understand,” Dr. Lawn protested, flustered. “I’m the only doctor in Ankh Morpork who studies medicine. I learn about disorders of the organs—abnormal growths, twisted limbs, stones. The way diseases spread. I— I don’t keep them. After—afterwards we put them corpses in good wood coffins, if they have families. Or bury them in the potters’ fields, if they don’t.

“ I don’t like the Tanty, no one does.” He said. “But—thirty years ago when I came here, I was only able to treat the diseases of the Seams—er, er—anyway. Now I can treat more than the pox, and yes, I’ve learned things from dissections.” His face fell in fatigued lines. “Your woman has these strange horrible wounds, but I think they happened all at once. Quickly. The burn—I’ve only seen that in brands—I don’t control the Guilds, and yes, that happens with the Thieves’ Guild. The flayed skin here—" he gestured to the deep gashes—"looks like a sword. A sword heated in a forge might cause this, but I’ve never heard of it. She appeared in the post office yard, and you don’t know how she came there?”

Magrat breathed in deeply and shook her head. “I don’t think it matters how it happens. We can only fix what we see, and I’d liked to set up the poultice as soon as I can. Please?” She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. He frowned. “Very well, send the girl out if you need something.” He tipped his head towards a tiny, pale, figure hidden in the corner. 

“Y..Yes, sir,” the small girl whispered. “Them cuts and burns, they w..was horrible. Kin I wait outside the door?” Granny lifted herself away from the bed and held out her hand. “Come on, missy. You haven’t been at the hospital long, have you?”

“I started yesterday, and Dr. Lawn’s nurse said I’d jest be cleaning the chamber pots and sweeping. I’ve never seen—”she gestured toward the bed.

“Magrat needs sage, marigold, and white willow. She also needs a bowl to mix the herbs," Granny said. Nanny pulled out another little bag of the bear wax. “I always find this is good for mixing things, plus it’s a powerful help for help the insides as well.” She twitched a lip. “You might say it’s an aid for easing things in and out.” 

Magrat shook her head, unwilling to be drawn into another embarrassing Nanny tale. 

“I’m talking about birthing children,” Nanny said innocently. “That’s all.”

%%%%%%%%%%

_Tonks was caught in a nightmare. She was running, running, running to find Remus. Voices called her to return, to think of Teddy, to stay safe. She had no time or breath to tell them, “I am thinking of Teddy. If we win the war, he will be safe. If we lose the war, he’ll need to be with relatives to keep him away from the Death Eaters. If we win the war, but I do not return"—she would not think of that. She was no great fighter, but she was an Auror, and every wand stroke was needed. Where was Remus? She entered the grounds of Hogwarts and fought her way to the castle. Professor McGonagall had enchanted desks and was leading them with a yell of “Charge.” Explosions and duels and curses were all around her, but her friends were unable to hear her. She raced through the corridors which moved and changed and kept her away from the battle. She could not find Remus, she could not see his grey-brown hair._

_Finally she heard the scream of her aunt, the murdering Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix appeared in front of her, her last foe falling at Tonks’s feet. “Kill her. Kill her,” was all Tonks could think, although she'd never dueled to kill before. She raised her wand, throwing a Protego around herself, and quickly cast a Stinging Hex, with a Knock-Back Jinx following. Bellatrix laughed and sliced them aside. Tonks tried a Stunner, and then a Backfire jinx, a Petrificus Totalis, and a Confringo. All were pushed away easily, even the last Blasting Spell. Her Incarcerous also failed to bind Bellatrix. Finally Tonks raised her wand for her very first Avada Kadavra, but before she completed it, Bellatrix screamed in triumph. Tonks was slammed to the ground by fire which ripped open her face, shoulder, and chest._

Now she was half-awake in a quiet place and warm under blankets, and the pain in her body had been dulled. Her mind was muzzy. Several soft voices were speaking. At least one person was a witch, because Tonks could feel that spells had been cast upon her. She didn’t open her eyes because she didn’t know whether they were friends, or enemies waiting for her to wake up before cursing her again. But someone had held her hand and told her to stay alive so she could see Remus. _Yes, she thought. I will._ Then thoughts tumbled down and she slept again.


	5. Remus and Angua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The werewolves converse.

 

Vimes had learned about Roundworld from a previous headache which had involved bank thieves who’d never heard of the Thieves’ Guild but had pocket-sized gonnes. If the golems hadn’t been at the bank—the gonnes had chipped the golems before they reached the robbers, but they honorably captured the men instead of killing them. Then they’d been turned over to Vetinari who ignored their origins and sentenced them to the hemp fandango. Somehow the multiverse had shifted before they reached the scaffold and they’d disappeared. _Roundworld, the wizards had muttered. It had to be another world. They could have disappeared only to another world, and Ponder Stibbons had calculated that, as strange as it seemed, the equations showed the world they vanished to was round._

Remus woke in the evening sensing the pain of an unusually bad shift. The new slashes and slices were more than typical, but today he felt the deep ache of broken bones also. It was strange—and then he opened his eyes and realized again why he was so disoriented. Angua was sitting patiently beside him. She handed him a rib of roast pork, its skin crackling and dripping with juice, as soon as she saw he was awake. 

“Roundworld,” she muttered. “The _wizards_ explained. They have no idea why your - world - collided with ours, but I think it's what saved you. They can’t explain why people don’t fall off, but _I don’t care._ ” She spat. “It’s _magic,_ and I hate it.“

The roil of anger had risen from her when she said _wizards,_ which played badly for him. But—he was curious and if it would distract her – he'd spent weeks talking to werewolves much more likely to kill him. He was an operative, even this close to a change. He crunched down the first rib and she handed him another. He’d never had anything so delicious. 

“You don’t think werewolves are magic?”

“Of course we’re not magic—we’re natural born monsters!”

“Born?” Even though he was still in deep pain as his body sewed itself together, Remus would say anything to distract her from the topic of magic. Besides, he was fascinated. Living with the curse, but in a family—it couldn’t help but be better. 

“Of course born.” Her smell turned bitter. “I come from a “noble house” in Uberwald—that’s hundreds of miles here, forests and cold. I liked the forests,” she sounded wistful. “The only good thing about Uberwald are the trees and the clean air. My dear family—my father is Baron Guye von Uberwald. My mother is Lady Serafine.” Contempt poured from her. What was that all about? He spoke without thought.

“Wouldn’t a family of werewolves support each other through the full moons?” 

It was what he’d always wanted—family to share the change with him. Family to understand how muscles rip and bones crunch. The Marauders had helped, for a few years, friends who gamboled with him in the forest. Friends whose illegal, unregistered, underage Animagi forms allowed them to slip from human to animal to human again without pain. He’d envied them the rapid body shifts, even as he marveled at the years they’d practiced to give him companionship. He missed those days more than he could say. As a teen, he’d never thought about what might happen when they graduated. He’d assumed they’d always be together. 

Then came the betrayal by his best friend, the deaths of his three other best friends, Sirius’s imprisonment for over a decade, and then his dangerous escape. The shocking discovery of the real traitor, with Sirius _still_ unable to prove his innocence because Peter had escaped. His best mate had been a prisoner in a dark house, and finally died when he tried to fight the Death Eaters in the Ministry. Sirius’ fall through the veil would never leave his memory. But parents who understood him and didn’t spend years dragging him to healers trying to reverse the irreversible—that had to be so much better than the alternative.

She snorted. “Not my family. But you—werewolves aren’t born on Roundworld?” 

“No.” Why should he tell her about the attack—he’d done his best to forget it. On the other hand, she was the only person who might understand. “You have to be—bitten. I was a child.” He heard her gasp, and rolled over to face her.

“Gods.” She hesitated. “But then—you don’t have to live with—the one who—changed you?” 

“Sometimes, if no one will take you in. You’re lucky to get away with only being changed and not killed. Feral werewolves live in packs, and some who’ve been bitten can only find places with the packs—anyway, I didn’t have to live with them. The rest of us—live as best we can in society, trying to hide it.” Now he smelled his own anger. “I was changed when I was four. I lived with my family—my father dragged me to healer after healer, legitimate and not, trying to—make me normal.”

“Huh. We have families here, but—” he could smell the twisted red-green-black of anger and pain. Angua shuddered, hesitated. “My family really are monsters. My mother is a high-society bitch, and my father spends so much time in his fur he can scarcely talk anymore.” She shut up abruptly and leaned back against the wall of his cell.

He wondered about siblings, but didn’t dare ask. She continued. “Oh, Offler’s teeth, it doesn’t matter if I tell you. You’re the only person who would understand. Carrot knows, but he can’t understand from the inside—but my brother killed my sister.”

“Ohh,” He breathed out. He started to touch her arm, stopped. His arms still ached, but also—touch meant more than words to werewolves; not good here with a woman who wasn’t his wife. 

“Yes. She wasn’t a full bi-morph, you understand?” He shook his head. “You and me—we’re bimorphs, we change from human to wolf. Elsa—couldn’t change. She was stuck as a human. Wolfgang is, was, a purist—a species supremacist. He despised her and he killed her. He drove away my other brother.”

“Your other brother was always human, too?”

“No, he was the other way around. He was always a wolf. Wolfgang could have killed him, but he was satisfied to drive him away. Andrei works as a sheepdog, and I’m not even sure where he is now.”

The gold-red color of pride and anger filled her. “Wolfgang’s dead now, though. Mr. Vimes killed him.”

“Mister - ?” 

“You met him—no, I think you were still in too much pain. The Commander came in and talked to me for a second. He’s the one who told me he thought you came from Roundworld. Whatever that is.”

"My world"—still hard to believe he was on another planet—"is beautiful in places, too. Scotland is cool and rainy.”

“Sounds nice.” She shifted tones again, and he realized he forgotten, dammit, she was a policewoman. “So why don’t you tell me about the magic?”

Damn, damn, damn. Alright, he could buy a little time. “Why don’t you tell me about my wife?”

“I suppose that’s fair—what’s her name, anyway?”

“Dora. How is she?”

He was right, she’d decided to treat a prisoner fairly—if he was a prisoner—the door to the cell was open.

Angua stretched her back. She went on. “The woman with the pink hair is at the Lady Sybil—she’s breathing well and they’ve treated her injuries. She isn’t nearly as bad off as you are. She was unconscious when they found her, and has these really strange injuries. I was told they look like she’d been cut with a burning sword. You know what could have caused that?” He didn’t say anything. 

“You’re going to have to tell us sooner or later.”

“Why? Am I a prisoner here?”

Angua was startled. “No. We brought you to the Watch House because it was the closest place with help. We put you in the cell because it was the largest place for Igor to work.” She paused, obviously considering. “Mr. Vimes isn’t keeping you a prisoner, but—see, you stink like wizards. And I could see the octarine around you. Wizards haven’t had wars here for ages, but they nearly destroyed everything. The both of you were nearly dead—"

“We were fighting a war.” His own bitterness stank. “A war with evil wizards who believed that they were the only people who mattered. They would have killed everyone, Mu—non-magical people as well as magical. We had sent away the younger students, but the oldest students insisted on fighting with us—"

“Students? You were fighting in a school? Are you a teacher, then? Weren’t there any soldiers, or at least any trained fighters?”

He laughed out loud. “Oh, we _are_ trained fighters. My wife, for one, is better than I am—” he choked. “She shouldn’t have been there! I told her to stay safe, told her to stay with Teddy! I didn’t know she was there until I saw Bellatrix and heard her scream. I couldn’t get to her—Dolohov was on me and I couldn’t get to her in time, I couldn’t and then—" he flopped to his back. “Then Dolohov killed me; I thought he killed me. He hit me with a killing curse—I saw it coming—.” Remus struggled to explain to Angua. “He raised his wand and hit me with the type of spell that is an Unforgiveable. I saw it coming, but I couldn’t block it, and then I felt my chest explode. Then I was here,” he growled, voice twisted and grim. 

“As to whether _we_ are the evil wizards, Dora was killed—was attacked—by her own aunt, because she wasn’t a pure-blood. Bellatrix’s sister—Dora’s mother—was from one of the highest pure-blood family, but she married a Muggle. A non-magical person. Dora was only a half-blood, so Bella hated her, and was even more disgusted when Dora married a werewolf. I told her I was too old, too poor, and too dangerous, but she twisted me around her finger, flashed that beautiful hair—I should not have married her.” Angua silently gave him a large rib and he ate it, eyes closed.

“Dora’s injuries were from a wand. She was dueling—I couldn’t see whether she’d landed anything on Bella. I hope she did. Yes, there are spells that burn. You only use them when you duel to kill. We were fighting for our lives, our friends’ lives, our students’ lives—they shouldn’t have been there in a war either, but they were.”

“Why were you dangerous to your wife?” Angua had inexplicably changed topic, with a voice she was trying to make mild. _Woman, you haven’t interviewed many werewolves, have you? Humans can’t hear those vibrations, but I can. You are so angry you want to punch me._ He was furious.

“Why was I dangerous? I’m a fucking werewolf, why do you think I’m dangerous? I couldn't get any wolfsbane - you might call it something different, but you know it's the only way. You and me, we turn into raving monsters every twenty-eight days—have to lock ourselves away so we won’t kill anyone!” 

Angua was all the way out of the cell. “Stay there, Remus, or I _will_ lock the door, and I don’t think you’re strong enough to break out yet.” She took a deep breath. “At the full, I turn to wolf and lose most of my human thinking, but I spend the night chasing chickens. That's all. _I'm_ not - the Disc is not - I'm sorry for your world."

He caught the odor of her pity for him, and suddenly understood what she hadn't said. Merlin. How was it possible? 

_Werewolves on the Disc didn't have to kill people._


End file.
